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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29684703">Pressed Flowers Last Longer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraxb/pseuds/miraxb'>miraxb</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(if you squint), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Edinburgh, M/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Rain &amp; Metaphors, flower shop &amp; tattoo parlor, not that it matters, set in, that should be a tag because it applies to nearly every one of my fics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:28:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,820</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29684703</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraxb/pseuds/miraxb</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have a wonderful eye.”</p>
<p>Joe looked up, startled. The botanist was standing in front of him.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Joe said. “I’m sorry, again, to have interrupted like —”</p>
<p>“It’s no problem at all. I hated to think of you going back out into that rain.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, the rain. I can’t believe it’s still coming down like that.” Joe had somehow forgotten about the rain, despite the fact that he could hear it drumming against the windows and his jeans were drying stiff and uncomfortable against his thighs. </p>
<p>“Who is the bouquet going to be for?” His eyes were greener up close, and intensely focused as they examined the assemblage of blossoms on the bench. Purples, mostly, as that was Amina’s favorite color. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>In which Joe forgets his sister's birthday, gets rained on, and meets someone new.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>284</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pressed Flowers Last Longer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I kind of can't believe this is my first fic for the TOG fandom. It's pretty fluffy and silly, but I hope you like it. This fandom has been such a fun place to hang out and I can't wait to contribute more in the future.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a dark and stormy night and Yusuf al-Kaysani was beginning to panic.</p>
<p>Or, rather, it was an obnoxiously rainy Tuesday afternoon in February and Yusuf al-Kaysani had been panicking for hours. </p>
<p>If he didn’t find a solution soon, he’d never hear the end of it from his mother. Not to mention Noor. And Amina might actually stab him with a kebab skewer, or at least glower at him with her big, hurt eyes, which would probably be more painful. (Which, of course, she would know, and thus intentionally weaponize). Youngest sisters don’t pull punches, even on their birthdays. </p>
<p>Which, yes: Joe had forgotten it was her birthday. Had, in fact, only <em>remembered</em> it was her birthday when Noor texted the sibling group chat a senseless stream of celebratory emojis at a truly unholy hour of the morning. (It had been ten, but <em>hush</em>). </p>
<p>So here he was: jogging down the high street, jacket held overhead like a canopy because his ludicrously expensive leave-in conditioner had a charming tendency to run into his eyes when wet, frantically searching for the perfect birthday gift. He’d already tried the boutique clothing store (a bit tacky and he wasn’t sure what Amina’s size was, anyway), the bookshop (the poetry section was fantastic, but he somehow didn’t think his sister would appreciate a collection of his favorite works by Pablo Neruda), and the Williams-Sonoma (<em>so</em> overpriced, and if he was going to spend eighty quid on a bowl, it was bloody well going to be handmade and signed by the ceramicist). The only option left was the florist’s down the road, a backup plan he’d been skirting around all afternoon. </p>
<p>Flowers <em>died</em>. Quickly. They made for a horrible birthday gift.</p>
<p>By the time he reached the door to the shop, his jacket was soaked through and his conditioner had started to sting his eyes. This <em>might</em> explain why it took Joe several seconds to realize that the usually quiet store was full to bursting. There were rows of wooden benches spanning the main room, each decked out with a vase and an array of cuttings. By the time he <em>had</em> noticed, he had already walked directly into the nearest worktable, jaring his hip painfully. </p>
<p>“Ay, fuck!” </p>
<p>“Joe!” </p>
<p>It was Quỳnh, the artist who had tattooed him last year, and she was sitting on a tall stool behind one of the benches, glasses perched on her nose as she held a rose by its long stem. In fact, there was someone sitting at nearly every workstation. And they had all just heard Joe curse. He felt his face warm. </p>
<p>At the front of the room stood a tall woman with dark hair and, beside her, a man with silvery eyes and a chagrined expression on his face. The woman, in contrast, was smirking. Joe couldn’t decide which of them was judging him more. He <em>could</em> decide that he hated everything about this moment. </p>
<p>He flashed an apologetic grin, figuring he might as well brazen through. </p>
<p>“I’m so sorry,” he said, “I should have been paying more attention.”</p>
<p>He turned to leave, steeling himself for another wash of icy rain, when a voice halted him. </p>
<p>“We have one more space, if you would like to stay.” It was a low voice, and richly accented. <em>Italian</em>, Joe thought. </p>
<p>“Space?” he asked, turning back around. Those silvery eyes were boring into him. </p>
<p>“In the workshop,” the man said, and he gestured to the last open bench, right at front of the room and to his left. Joe could see why no one had chosen it; the shop was small, and this bench had been crammed in at an awkward diagonal, abutting the hosts’ station. </p>
<p>“Er —”</p>
<p>“We are learning to build bouquets. You can, of course, take yours with you at the end. If you were looking to buy —”</p>
<p>“Right. Right.” He looked from Quỳnh, who was smiling invitingly, to the woman at the front, who was now raising her eyebrows at the man beside her. </p>
<p>“Sure, why not,” he said. </p>
<p>“It’s fifty dollars,” the woman at the front said. </p>
<p>“Andy —” the man began, scowling at her.  </p>
<p>“Everyone here —”</p>
<p>“That seems more than fair,” Joe said, heading off whatever argument was about to begin. “A bouquet and a lesson? A steal at twice the price.” He shuffled his way to the front of the room, apologizing quietly to the other patrons as he sidled past. It was lucky he was not a shy man; every eye in the room was on him. </p>
<p>The woman — Andy — clapped her hands together twice. “As I was saying, we are lucky today to be joined by Nicolò di Genova, who many of you will recognize from Instagram. Nicky and I met when I was his supervisor at the Royal Botanic Garden, but he’s since made a name for himself at St Andrews as a botanical researcher, as well as an Instagram thot.” </p>
<p>“Andy!” </p>
<p>“Sorry, <em>influencer</em>. Now, everyone, the first step is to determine what your centerpiece flower is going to be…”</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>“You have a wonderful eye.”</p>
<p>Joe looked up, startled. The botanist was standing in front of him.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Joe said. “I’m sorry, again, to have interrupted like —”</p>
<p>“It’s no problem at all. I hated to think of you going back out into that rain.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, the rain. I can’t believe it’s still coming down like that.” Joe had somehow forgotten about the rain, despite the fact that he could hear it drumming against the windows and his jeans were drying stiff and uncomfortable against his thighs. </p>
<p>“Who is the bouquet going to be for?” His eyes were greener up close, and intensely focused as they examined the assemblage of blossoms on the bench. Purples, mostly, as that was Amina’s favorite color. </p>
<p>Joe cleared his throat. “My sister. It’s her birthday.”</p>
<p>“Ah, I’m sure she will love it.”</p>
<p>Something of Joe’s distaste must have shown on his face, because the botanist — <em>Nicky</em>, he reminded himself — quirked an eyebrow. “No?”</p>
<p>Joe flushed again. “I’m sure she will find it pretty enough, but I am sorry to be giving her only flowers. I like my birthday gifts to have a longer shelf life.” He squeezed as much apology into his voice as he could, all too aware of where he was and to whom he was speaking. </p>
<p>“Eh,” Nicky said, surprising him. “We all have too many things these days. Better to give something ephemeral, that will not contribute to the clutter.” </p>
<p>“I guess. I hadn’t thought about it that way. I <em>was</em> thinking I might offer to press them for her, later. I work with pressed flowers sometimes.”</p>
<p>“Work? What do you do?” </p>
<p>“I’m an ‘artist’,” Joe said, scrunching up his nose as he said the word. </p>
<p>“An ‘artist’?” Nicky mimicked his air quotes. “Is that different from being an artist?”</p>
<p>“I guess not, but I don’t like the word artist. It feels presumptuous. And what I do — I mean, I mostly just make pretty things that tourists will buy. I’m a craftsman, really. A tradesman.” Joe didn’t usually go into this much detail with strangers, but something about this Nicky made him want to explain himself.</p>
<p>“Hmm,” said Nicky.</p>
<p>Then Andy was clapping again, and Joe realized that the class was coming to an end and he hadn’t touched his bouquet in several minutes. It looked nice enough. He plucked one last fern from the stack beside him and tucked it into the side. The greenery offset the purple nicely.</p>
<p>“Thank you, everyone, for coming today,” Andy was saying. “There is wrapping paper here if you would like to ready your bouquets to go.”</p>
<p>A woman near the back raised her hand. “What colors do you have?”</p>
<p>“Brown.”</p>
<p>“And newspapers,” added Nicky.</p>
<p>“Yes, and newspapers.”</p>
<p>The woman frowned.</p>
<p>In a vast scraping and clanking, the guests pushed away from their worktables, each clutching a bunch of flowers. The bouquets showed… varying levels of finesse, but Andy and Nicky were clear and direct instructors, so there were, at the very least, no abominations. Slowly, bouquets were wrapped in recycled paper and patrons trickled through the door and back to the mess outside. </p>
<p>Joe lingered, bills in hand, so that he might pay Andy for the class and the bouquet once she was less crowded by customers. When, at last, it was only him, Quỳnh, Nicky, and Andy, he stepped to the front. </p>
<p>“Thank you, this was a life saver,” Joe said, handing the wad of cash to Andy. Looking at Nicky, he said, “You’re a very good teacher.”</p>
<p>Nicky snorted. “All I did was distract you.”</p>
<p>“You’re a very good distractor, then,” Joe amended, feeling his face grow hot for the third time that afternoon. Then, because he needed an excuse to stop looking into Nicky’s strange eyes, he turned to Quỳnh. “It’s nice to see you again!”</p>
<p>She pulled him down into a hug. “You too! How is the piece looking?”</p>
<p>Joe pulled the hem of shirt up slightly, revealing the fine script scrawled across his hip by Quỳnh’s deft hand. “Good,” he said. “It healed perfectly.”</p>
<p>Quỳnh ran her finger across the skin. “Excellent,” she agreed, satisfied. Then, seemingly remembering where they were, she gestured to Andy. “This is my wife, and this is her shop you’ve stumbled into. And of course, you met Nicolò.”</p>
<p>Joe nodded, sheepish, to Andy, and then he was looking at Nicky again. That hadn’t lasted very long. Nicky, he found, was already staring at him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. </p>
<p>“It’s a, ah, beautiful tattoo,” he said.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Joe said. “Do you have any?”</p>
<p>Andy cackled beside him. “No. Nicky is scared of permanence.”</p>
<p>“That’s not —”</p>
<p>“You did say something along those lines about flowers,” Joe noted. </p>
<p>“Oh, did he give you the ephemera line? I swear, I think he’d be happiest living as a monk cataloging the weeds of the countryside.”</p>
<p>Nicky rolled his eyes, but there was a tiny smile dancing at the corners of his lips. “I don’t think I would like <em>everything</em> about being a monk.” His tone was perfectly dry. So was Joe’s mouth. </p>
<p>Andy laughed appreciatively at that and clapped Nicky on the back. Then, abruptly back to business, she said, “We need to get cleaned up. Nicky, can you bring the leftover cuttings back to storage? Quỳnh and I will fold the tables.”</p>
<p>“I can help,” Joe offered. He was still looking at Nicky. Nicky was still looking back. </p>
<p>“No need,” Andy said, already turning away and beginning to stack stools. </p>
<p>“I think Nicky could use some help,” Quỳnh piped up. “There are so many flowers to put back —”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Nicky agreed. “There are a lot.”</p>
<p>Andy swung back to face them, arms laden with stools. She looked from Nicky to Joe and then back to Nicky again. “Suit yourselves, then.”</p>
<p>Nicky began gathering plants, cradling the delicate blossoms gingerly in large, rough hands. Joe coughed briefly into his arm and then followed suit. Once both their arms were full, Nicky led the way behind the counter and into the back room. There was an automated door, and it slid open, washing the pair of them in cold, humid air.</p>
<p>It was Joe’s first time in a floral refrigerator, and he looked around in awe at the hundreds of specimens, neatly laid away. Nicky was already moving about the room, pulling open various drawers and replacing each unused blossom. </p>
<p>“What’s your opinion of refrigeration?” Joe asked. </p>
<p>Nicky looked at him, confused. “What?”</p>
<p>“Well, I would have thought you disapproved,” Joe said. “It synthetically extends the life —”</p>
<p>“Oh, <em>ha-ha</em>.”</p>
<p>Joe grinned. “Sorry.”</p>
<p>Nicky shook his head. “Andy is right to tease me; I know I sometimes climb onto a soapbox.”</p>
<p>“No, I like what you said. I sometimes worry I’m too frightened of <em>impermanence</em>. I should grasp onto things less.”</p>
<p>“There are things worth grasping onto,” Nicky said, and his voice was so quiet and so near. </p>
<p>Joe shoved his now empty hands into his pockets, and huffed out a breath that turned instantly to steam. “So what did Andy mean by ‘Instagram thot’, or, I’m sorry, <em>‘influencer’</em>?”</p>
<p>Nicky groaned deliciously and the tension of the moment was broken. “Influencer somehow manages to sound even less respectable than ‘thot’.”</p>
<p>The laugh Joe let loose ricocheted around the small, insulated room, and he was rewarded with another miniscule smile. </p>
<p>“But seriously,” Joe said. “Why haven’t I heard of you? Andy was making it sound like you’re some kind of celebrity.”</p>
<p>Nicky raised his hands to his temples and rubbed as if to ward off a migraine. Then, returning to the work of organizing flowers, he asked Joe, “What did you notice about the other patrons at the class today?”</p>
<p>Reaching back into his memory, Joe pulled forth an image of the shop as it had looked when he had first walked in, before embarrassment and confusion took over and clouded his senses. “It was — I guess it was, ah, a lot of, er, <em>women of a certain age</em>?”</p>
<p>“Yes, it was,” Nicky agreed. “So I think <em>that</em> is probably why you had not heard of me. I post gardening videos on Instagram and my audience is <em>very</em> specific.”</p>
<p>Joe laughed again, and covered his mouth with his hand. “That’s really very cool,” he said. “I shouldn’t laugh.”</p>
<p>“It is about as cool as this refrigerator isn’t but I appreciate your saying so. I like it, anyway. It’s nice, to teach people about ecology. And if my ‘sexy’ accent is what convinces someone to start composting, well, I’m not complaining.”</p>
<p>Joe’s mouth was open, ready to respond, when the door behind him slid open.</p>
<p>“Half the flowers are still out there. You can flirt later.”</p>
<p>He snapped his mouth shut and watched as Nicky glared past his head at Andy. He shivered, and not because of the cold. (Or, maybe slightly because of the cold. His hair was still wet, after all.)</p>
<p>Andy turned on her heel and was gone again, and Joe and Nicky shuffled after her. They collected the rest of the flowers in silence and took to the storage room in turns, avoiding one another’s eyes. </p>
<p>Joe was no infant; he knew what he was about. He liked Nicky and (he was fairly certain) Nicky liked him and, really, that was the whole of it. Only, few things could put paid to flirtation like <em>calling</em> it flirtation. Interest, once a breathless and abstract gift, was too quickly carried down to the concrete plane. And then you had to <em>do</em> something about it. </p>
<p>Robbed of conversation, the rest of the tidying went quite quickly. In no time at all, Joe was bundling back into his still-damp jacket. Nicky’s back was to him, idly examining the merchandise displayed on the counter. Small vases and decorative spades, the kind of bric-a-brac that likely appealed to Nicky’s Instagram audience. Joe gave the back of Nicky’s neck one last, regretful look, then pushed the door open and submitted himself once again to the insolence of the rain. </p>
<p>He was halfway down the block, shoulders hunched up around his ears, when he heard something to stop him in his tracks.</p>
<p>“Joe!” someone was calling, and then there were loud, flat-footed steps splashing down the pavement behind him, and then he turned and Nicky was there, Amina’s bouquet held out in front of him. “You forgot your sister’s flowers.”</p>
<p>“Oh! Fuck. Thank you.” He took the bouquet from Nicky’s hands, the brown paper already damp with water. It was sturdy, though, and not in danger of disintegrating. Looking down at the flowers, Joe noticed that another blossom had been added. A fluffy orange thing, somewhere between a chrysanthemum and a marigold, it made a striking contrast to the purple bouquet. Hesitant, he stroked a petal with his forefinger. </p>
<p>It was made of silk. </p>
<p>“That one is for you,” Nicky said. “I thought the color would suit you.”</p>
<p>Joe plucked it from the bunch and, unthinkingly, held it up to his nose. “It does, thank you,” he said, his lips muffled by the feathery petals. Nicky did not point out that the flower was silk and thus had no scent. He did not point out that Joe had fled the shop like it was the scene of a crime. He didn’t even point out that Joe’s jacket was on inside-out, something Joe himself would not realize until Amina laughed at him upon his arrival for dinner that night. </p>
<p>No, Nicky just looked at Joe with that intent, clear gaze and said: “I think you forgot something else, too.”</p>
<p>“I did,” Joe agreed, breathless. “Nicky, can I have your number?”</p>
<p>Nicky grinned, the first unhindered smile Joe had seen from him. He leaned forward and ripped away a corner of the brown paper. He folded it in two and slipped it into Joe’s palm.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>Perhaps the concrete plane wasn’t so terrible after all. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! </p>
<p>Kudos and comments are always appreciated, if you have the spoons.</p>
<p>I'm also on <a href="https://miraxb.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> if you want to come say hi &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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